


The Revenge Club of Brooklyn High

by coffeestain



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-01 01:28:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14509515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeestain/pseuds/coffeestain
Summary: Every Thursday after school at a certain high school in the heart of Brooklyn, if you go to room 225 at 3:00PM and knock exactly 4 times, you will encounter the Revenge Club. It’s not a club that’s recognized by the school board, and if you go to any other school in the country you probably won’t find anything similar. Founded by Kate Bishop, and later, Clint Barton, this club is intended to bring revenge on bullies, sexist coaches and asshole teachers. The club is not advertised, there are no announcements every morning about meeting times or club activities. Most of the students and teachers don’t even know about it. And the ones who do never have enough proof to be able to put a stop to it.Welcome to the Revenge Club of Brooklyn High.





	1. The Revenge Club

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first venture into a multi-chapter modern AU thing, so please, be gentle. Probably just a shameless way to get all my favourite characters in a school setting together, but this idea has been bouncing around in my head for a real long time so I'm happy to finally get it out on paper. All my love and thanks to Noelle (prewarbucky.tumblr.com), an angel, who always helps me through this process. 
> 
> Small content warning for a (extremely vague) description of a vehicle accident.

“Steve,  _ Steve _ , come on,” Bucky’s complaining, pacing around the art classroom as Steve takes a million and a half years to gather his supplies. “How many shades of light blue are you even going to need over one weekend?” 

Steve rolls his eyes, but his focus on paint mixing does not break. “I’m planning a big project,” He explains. “Gonna try and get a lot done this weekend. Maybe won’t have time to play Smash for 24 hours straight.” 

Bucky scoffs. “You just know I’m gonna kick your ass,” 

This is routine, for the two of them. Friday afternoons usually mean them getting together for the weekend (usually at Steve’s place; Bucky’s sister sometimes has friends of her own over, and they’d rather be able to play violent video games without interruption, thank you very much, and it is definitely  _ not  _ because the only real feeling of  _ family _ he gets is at Steve’s house, with Steve’s parents, and not that he didn’t appreciate his foster parents, but it was just  _ different _ , okay), mostly to watch movies, eat too much junk food and play video games till Sunday. Steve sometimes stays at school late to gather art supplies for the weekend, for his latest big art project or just to take advantage of the school’s good quality paints and pastels and practice. 

Ever since they were little boys, who found out on the first day of kindergarten that they had a preference for the same brand of little plastic army men, and that they lived not two doors down, they’d be inseparable. Steve had been a lot smaller than all the other kids, had hearing aids in almost all the time, and was absent from school due to sickness much more than anyone else was, so often he’d find himself on the receiving end of some heartless playground ridicule from some of his classmates . It was always Bucky, though, who told the bullies to “Go on, scram, ‘fore I let ya have it,” throwing up his fists in a challenge (he never actually wanted to fight, but he knew they’d back off as soon as he stood up to them, and besides, Steve wouldn’t approve of Bucky actually brawling, even if it were to defend Steve’s honor, but he appreciated the thought anyways). Whenever Steve got seriously ill, it was Bucky and his foster mom who brought over steaming homemade soup and fresh juice for them to eat, and a brand-new comic book or one of Bucky’s little army men (“Y’better give that back when you’re feelin’ better, punk,”) to lift Steve’s spirits.

Steve soon caught up with the rest of the kids’ growth spurts, though, and even though Steve felt more than capable of taking care of himself, Bucky was always there for him. No matter the issue, Bucky’d be right at his side. Steve got a chance to return the favour, though, when they were thirteen and stupid, and Bucky had his accident. 

It was summer when it happened. Bucky never blamed anybody for it, least of all his own foster dad, but it was his own fascination and enchantment with the old man’s motorcycle that just wouldn’t leave him alone. A slightly wet day; it wasn’t a thunderstorm but the roads were still slick from the passing drizzle. Bucky had asked before, sure, but today he  _ begged  _ and _ begged  _ for his dad to give him a ride, please, the sun’s coming out and it’ll be so nice, just around the block, _ please  _ _ —  _ while Steve had watched, amused, from Bucky’s front porch, pencil crayons scrawled out in front of him, trying quite futilely to teach Becca how to colour inside the lines. The sun peeked out from the clouds, slowly disappearing and brightening the afternoon, and Bucky threw a few more “ _ please please pleases _ ” out before his dad finally agreed. 

The driver of the SUV that hit them had been high. Steve, nor Bucky, didn’t even know what that meant back then, just that it wasn’t good. As the vehicle approached the side of the bike,  _ far too quickly _ , Bucky remembers thinking, he extended his dominant hand to shield his face from the glass, and he doesn’t remember much after that, save for a glimpse of his own skin and muscle and bone, mangled in between the two vehicles; his arm hadn’t looked like an arm at all, and the next thing he knew, he was in the hospital with Steve and his foster parents and his sister waiting for him to wake up, and a whole lot of weight was suddenly missing from his left side. 

Steve doesn’t take for granted the fact that Bucky never really shares details or memories the accident with many else besides himself, because Steve was there for him first, Bucky always says, Steve was at the hospital before anyone else who wasn’t in his immediate family, and Steve was the one who refused to leave until the very last second of visiting hours, until the nurses practically had to drag the boy out. 

After that, it was Sarah and Steve Rogers who were bringing soup and toys to Bucky, and though grateful, Bucky always had a pit in his stomach saying _it should be the other way around_ , especially on the days when Steve couldn't come to visit, on the days when Sarah set a brand new comic book in front of Bucky with an apologetic smile and a _he picked it out_ _special for you himself_ ; on those days Bucky blames himself, because Steve wouldn't have been at the hospital exposed to who-knows-what kind of germs—

They take care of each other, that's how it's been since the beginning. 

“Come on, Steve, I wanna go home,” Bucky complains again, using the voice he uses when he wants something (which, ashamedly, always works on Steve) as he hoists himself up onto the counter where Steve is working and goes on about some video game or another that he wants to get back to playing. 

Steve doesn’t respond, though. He’s too focused on mixing the colours just right, looking up every once in a while to steal glances at Bucky’s eyes; trying to match the icy blue he sees to the paint in the jar, and trying not to get distracted by the way Bucky’s eyes crinkle up when he laughs, and he’s totally  forgotten what Bucky’s talking about now, until —

“Ah, fuck,” Steve sighs. He’s spilled way too much of the wrong blue into the jar; more than he could just scoop out. Totally unsalvageable. Bucky laughs, mussing up Steve’s hair as he hops down from the counter. 

“Aw, don’t worry,” he grins that impossible grin. “We can always hit up Walmart or something for new colours--”

“Walmart!” Steve exclaims, almost offended, as he wraps up the rest of his belongings, the paint mixes that he didn’t royally screw up. “If you think I’d be caught  _ dead _ going for art supplies in a place like  _ Walmart _ \--”

“Okay, okay. Fine. That fancy art shop downtown that you love so much. My treat, even. But only if we can go home now.” 

Steve laughs, slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder and says “Let’s fucking go then,” and the two of them walk side by side, bumping shoulders as they make plans to take a break from all-weekend gaming to go out to the art shop.

“Was the one shade of blue really that important?” Bucky asks. 

“Yes,” Steve answers, and doesn’t elaborate. Which isn’t all that strange, actually — Steve draws Bucky much more than he’d care to admit, so often Steve just shuts up about his art. There are covered canvases in Steve’s closet, entire sketchbooks that Bucky has never even laid eyes on. He knows it’s probably irritating sometimes, to go one week explaining every single excruciatingly intricate detail of a painting he’s working on and then to go radio silent the next. Steve says he’s just not as confident in some of his works than he is in others, which isn’t entirely false, but for the most part, Steve pours all his love and passion and dedication into drawings of Bucky, and there are countless. Charcoal sketches of him doing something completely menial, like sleeping or zoning out during an all-night Portal session, always taking extra care when drawing Bucky’s sleeve pinned up; using the same gentle finesse he would if he were touching the actual spot, the expanse of skin littered with scars, sensitive skin that ends just below his shoulder. Hours spent trying to mix whites and blues and silvers, trying to perfectly match the impossible blue of Bucky’s eyes, or how the skin around his eyes crinkle when he laughs, or the way he smiles with his whole face. Entire sketchbooks filled with doodles of the frankly sinful curve of his lips, red and pouty even in a smile. God, if Steve was any more of a drama queen, he would call Bucky his muse, the One Thing he would choose if he could only ever draw one thing for the rest of his life it would be Bucky, Bucky, Bucky.

“Did you hear that?” Bucky says suddenly, as they’re just about to leave. Steve’s shoulders drop as he looks over at Bucky in a scowl, as if saying “Look how close we are to leaving,” and then a confused look that says “I thought you wanted to go home?” as Bucky turns to investigate the noise, in the exact opposite direction of the exit. 

“I’m serious,” he says. “I thought I heard someone. It must be well past 4pm, as if there’re any students still here...” 

“Come  _ on _ , Buck,” It’s Steve’s turn to complain loudly, but he follows Bucky anyways. “I want to buy paints and you want to kick my ass at Smash or Street Fighter or whatever, who cares if there’s someone still here, they’re probably just staying late to work on school work...” Steve turns the corner and stops in his tracks. A girl with long, sleek black hair in a dark purple jersey is fiddling with a locker that Steve immediately recognizes to be Bucky’s. She doesn’t seem to notice the two of them, so engrossed in whatever she’s trying to do. Steve and Bucky share a cautious glance before they hear the girl mutter something like “Futzin’ Stane is gonna pay...” 

“You know,” Bucky says loudly, without warning, so much so that the girl literally  _ jumps _ . “Obadiah Stane’s locker is 163. That one’s mine.” 

The girl looks up at the locker number and, realizing her mistake, drags a hand down the side of her face. "Aw, Barton, you dummy..." she says to no one in particular before moving one locker over. "Sorry." she says, and then "hey, keep on the lookout, would you?" without any further explanation. 

"Who are you?" Steve asks. "What're you doing?" 

"Kate," she says simply. "and I'm filling up Stane's locker with shaving cream. Questions?" 

Bucky laughs. "Um, yeah. A few."   
Kate looks up expectantly, as if waiting for them to ask, as if she’s done this before. 

“Why...?” is all Bucky can say. 

“Stane made fun of Kamala — _a futzin’ ninth grader_ — for not shaving her futzin’ arms.”

“So this is your weird brand of revenge?” Steve asks. 

Kate looks like she wants to laugh for some reason. “Well, not mine, exactly.” 

Steve raises his eyebrows. 

Kate sighs. “Listen, all you need to know is that Stane’s an asshole and he deserves this,” She says, as if that explains everything. 

“I still don’t get why you’re doing this.” 

“It’s not your business.”

“You almost put shaving cream in my locker!” Bucky practically shouts, throwing his hand up in the air. 

Kate, having finally gotten the locker open, runs a hair through her hair with a groan, looking both Steve and Bucky up and down. “Fine. I’m gonna tell you, but only because I’ve seen you around,” she points at Steve, “and you seem cool. And you,” next she points at Bucky, “are in my physics class. By the way, I copied off your test once. Sorry. Now help me spray this all over Stane’s shit.” Kate rambled, though very businesslike, as she handed them both a can of shaving cream. Steve complies, never one to back down from teaching an asshole a lesson, and Bucky does mainly out of curiosity, and because Steve does too. The three make a big a mess as possible inside Stane’s locker, making sure to fill every crevice with shaving cream (and getting some on his textbooks, too), cracking jokes all the while. Once Kate was satisfied with their handiwork, she collected the empty cans and shoved them into her backpack. 

“Now, you want an explanation?” she started with a smirk. “Come to room 225 next Thursday at exactly 3pm and knock on the door no more, no less than 4 times. I’ll be able to explain properly then.” 

And without another word, Kate was gone. 

“What the hell was that all about.” Bucky says, but doesn’t really form it like a question, just kind of deadpans. 

“Pal, your guess is as good as mine,” Steve says with a shrug, and then Bucky brings up something about the next Star Wars movie coming out, and the subject goes mostly forgotten for the remainder of the weekend.

* * *

 

Thursday after school, at exactly 3pm, Steve and Bucky stand side by side at the door to room 225, exchanging a whole mess of nervous glances. As Bucky's hand is poised tentatively against the door, he shrugs over at Steve, who only nods once in response - his silent way of saying "let's do it." Bucky takes a deep breath, and,  _ knock-knock-knock-knock _ ; four times. Immediately, Kate opens the door just one centimeter, as if checking to see who it was before letting them in. 

It's a classroom, identical to any other classroom in the school, except there's no one here, save for Steve, Bucky, Kate, and two other boys. One wears sunglasses, has dark, messy brown hair and absently twirls a long, thin cane around in his hands. The other is tallish, with blond hair, has a number of bandages on his face and what Steve recognizes to be hearing aids in his ears. 

"Gentlemen," Kate starts, an air of officiality in her voice that seems to make the blond boy roll his eyes. Kate points over to him. "That is Clint Barton," then she moves over to the boy in the sunglasses, who's sitting on a desk and not really making eye contact with Steve of Bucky, or even Kate for that matter, just looking in their general direction. "This is Matthew Murdock." 

"Just Matt, please, Katie." 

"You keep calling me Katie, I keep calling you Matthew." Kate retaliates through gritted teeth. She turns back to Steve and Bucky. "You already know me, Kate Bishop." Clint rolls his eyes again. 

"You're in my physics class," Bucky says under his breath. 

Kate scowls at them both, but continues unphased. "Welcome to the Revenge Club of Brooklyn High,"

“Revenge club?” Steve repeats. 

“Revenge Club,” Kate confirms. When she offers no further explanation, Clint steps in.  

“You ever see a poor ninth grader getting initiated? Or a kid with not too many good friends getting picked on?” 

Steve and Bucky nod in unison. Steve doesn’t say, “I’ve experienced it,” because just to look at him, well. You could kind of guess.

“Well...” Clint continues, scratching at the back of his head. “we kind of... take revenge on those assholes... for the people who can’t?” 

“That’s -- that’s amazing.” Steve says, kind of in awe. 

“Yeah, well.” Clint shrugs. “It’s mostly petty shit, but, y’know. Better’n nothin’?” 

“And I am the leader,” Kate cuts in.

Clint stuck out his tongue and did a raspberry, saying “Fuck you, Katie!” at the same time Matt scowls and exclaims “You’re not the leader!” 

Kate looks legitimately offended. “It was my idea! I founded this club!”

“Yeah, and there’d be no club without my help,” Clint deadpanned. 

“Ugh, forget it. Let’s just--”

“I want in,” Steve interrupts, expression serious. 

“What?” Kate says after a long, silent moment. 

“I want in,” Steve repeats. “You guys seem cool. And I really don’t like bullies. So,” he shrugs. Bucky grips Steve’s shoulder and pulls him aside. “Stevie,” he says, eyebrows knitted together. “Are you sure? We could get in trouble. And it’s almost the end of the semester -- don’t you think there’s gonna be more to worry about than spraying shaving cream into some asshole’s locker?” 

Steve kind of loves that Bucky said “we” instead of “you,” as if there’s no question whatsoever that if Steve’s doing this, then Bucky is too.  “I want to,” Steve shrugs again. “I can handle it. You can too, jackass.” He thinks for a moment,, expression still deadly serious. “All those times you saved my ass? I wanna be able to do that for someone, too.” 

Bucky sighs, running a hand down his face, defeated. Clearly exasperated. He turns back to Kate, Clint and Matt. “We want in,” he says, and Steve punches the air a little because  _ hell yeah, we do.  _


	2. Operation: All Hands On Deck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky are a part of their first official mission in the Club, with the help of of a new honorary member.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, firstly, love and thanks to Noelle again for helping me with this one. Can't appreciate her enough honestly. So basically, I wanted to wait till chapter 3 was almost ready before posting this one so I could try and get back on a regular posting schedule, but then I realized it's been more than 2 weeks since chapter 1 was uploaded and also a posting schedule is unrealistic oof
> 
> Anyway. Enjoy!

To join the club officially, Kate had explained, Steve and Bucky would need to prove themselves by helping out with a successful pranking operation. Their work on what Kate had called Operation: Hair-Brained apparently wasn’t sufficient. Unfortunately, there wasn’t actually anything the club was working on that week, so a club meeting was kind of moot, but Kate had already told them to come by the week before, so the club meeting this time was really just for introducing Steve and Bucky to the club itself; they were more or less already in.

When 3pm rolled around on the following Thursday, Steve and Bucky once again find themselves side by side at the door to room 255. Steve knocks; once, twice, three times, and the door swings open to reveal a beaming Kate before Steve even completes the fourth knock.  
“C’mon in, guys,” she says, hoisting herself up onto a desk and crossing her legs in one swift motion. “Lots to discuss today.”  
There’s an extra body in the classroom today — a tall, graceful figure dressed in all black with smooth, fiery red hair and the most intense green eyes Steve has ever seen; his fingers suddenly itch for a sketchbook and coloured pencils.  
Clint must catch the boys staring, because he coughs and says, “Oh, uh, this is Natasha. She’s sort of an honorary member?”  
“Katie keeps me around because I help out, sometimes,” her voice is deep and even. “And I like Clint’s plans.”  
“I think it’s because she just likes Clint,” Matt teases, facing away from Clint so he couldn’t read his lips.  
“Anyway, she’s here because she has a special interest in our next plan.” Kate explains, a devilish grin forming on her lips. “Nat?”  
“There was a party last weekend at Tony’s,” Natasha begins as Steve and Bucky settle in. “Most of the 12th grade was invited. Would’ve been too extravagant for anyone else but Stark, but you’ve probably heard how he is.” She rolls her eyes, and it’s true — though Tony Stark was a grade ahead of Matt, Kate, Steve and Bucky, it was almost impossible to avoid rumors about his uber-rich family, madcap stunts, and extravagant parties. Tony Stark was probably the most gossiped-about student in the school, and he loved it. To Tony Stark, there was no such thing as bad press. “Anyway, this lowlife Gilmore Hodge was there. He’s not even friends with Tony; someone else must’ve brought him along as a plus-one,” Natasha continues, “but he was absolutely shitfaced and tried to feel up almost every girl there — especially the ones he knew wouldn’t fight back. He grabbed Gwen’s ass, and Wanda’s, Kitty’s... he got real bold towards the end of the night and tried it with Peggy and me before she finally got fed up and punched him in the jaw.” She punched the air in front of her as she spoke, giggling, as though the boy in question were still right in front of her.  
“Are you alright?” Steve asks, genuinely concerned.  
“Oh, I can take an asshole any day,” Natasha nodded once, curtly, “but a few of the girls were really shaken up by it. So I want to teach a lesson to that son of a bitch.”  
“Sounds fair,” Matt chimes in, fiddling with the darkly-tinted sunglasses he usually wore. “What’s the plan?”  
Kate’s silly grin grows even wider as she reaches into her backpack. “Last night, Natasha-and-gentlemen, I made a special trip to the craft store and picked up these.” She pulls out a number of colourful sewing patches in the shape of cartoon hands. Clint shakes his head — “Kate, you know Matt can’t see them,”  
“They’re patches?” Bucky asks, partly for Matt’s benefit and partly to confirm it for himself.  
“Hand patches,” Kate nods. “We’re going to attach them to the asscheeks of his jeans while he’s in gym next week.”  
“We should put them on all his stuff so he has no choice but to walk around with hands on his butt,” Steve suggests.  
Kate points to him and says, “I like your style, Rogers,” as Natasha hops off her spot on the desk opposite from Kate’s, glides across the room and with a wink and grin, says, “Do me proud, babies,” and they get to work.

Bucky was to be the distraction. To be honest, he’d been hoping for a bit more of an active role in his and Steve’s first official mission with the Club, but in the end it made sense. Bucky had a class with the same teacher that taught Gilmore Hodge’s gym class, so he could easily come up with some reason to talk to the teacher and make a scene while Kate and Steve could sneak into the locker room to attach the patches to his jeans.  
“Steve and Katie can sneak into the locker room during last period while Bucky distracts the class. Guys, you’ll have to get in and out, so be quick, but make sure the patches are secure.” Matt had gone over the plan with them one final time be  
“I can take care of his gym shorts after, if we do it on Monday,” Clint had volunteered, “Me and Katie’s archery club meeting is at lunch, right after Hodge’s gym class every week, so I happen to know the dude gets real sweaty and takes a long shower after. I’m usually in the locker room before the club meeting starts, so he won’t be suspicious.”  
It came together surprisingly seamlessly, Bucky thought; one look at the group he’d found himself a part of and he would’ve guessed they’d never be able to work together, but the way they coordinated everything so smoothly, like a well-oiled machine, it made Bucky think that Kate, Clint and Matt must have more practice at this kind of thing than he realized.

Monday, in the middle of what would be Gilmore Hodge’s class, Kate, Steve and Bucky wait in front of the doors to the gymnasium, each having found separate excuses to leave their respective classes. No words were needed among them — they’d gone over the plan with Matt often enough that they could practically recite it to him verbatim by now. They’d timed it out perfectly, each of them carrying out their small duty like clockwork, but Steve could still feel his heart pounding so hard he was sure Kate and Bucky could hear it. Gilmore Hodge wasn’t exactly a forgiving kind of guy, and where Steve didn’t have any doubt Kate could defend herself if things went wrong, he worried about Bucky and himself — surely Hodge wouldn’t be one to go easy on a 90 pound half-deaf asthmatic and his one-armed best friend. With a determined nod, Bucky swings the gymnasium doors open, loud enough to make a scene, while Steve and Kate dash towards the other entrance, sure to be unseen now that Bucky had Mr. Coulson and the students’ attention on him on the other side of the gym. They noiselessly make their way towards the boys’ locker room, Kate giving Bucky one final nod from across the gym as they dive in the door.  
“This must be his bag,” Kate says, holding up a black backpack like Clint had described, as Steve watches to make sure the locker room door shut without a sound. Kate pulls out each item of clothing she could find from Hodge’s bag, laying them out on the tiled floor as Steve takes out their hot glue guns from his own backpack and plugs them in, willing them to heat up faster. “Ooh, this looks new,” Kate giggles, pointing to Hodge’s shirt, “and expensive. Hmm, too bad!”  
“Hey, so,” Kate says, just as they get started, clearing her throat. “I wanted to say, a lot of people would probably think this thing is,” she gestured to herself and Steve, indicating the club, “stupid, or petty, or pointless, but it’s cool to have more people to do it with, and you and Bucky are really cool, so, y’know. Thanks. For, um, not thinking that.”  
Steve smiles sincerely at Kate, but doesn’t let himself forget the task at hand. “Maybe it is petty,” He starts. “But, you know, you and the club, you’re doing something, at least, and even if it is stupid or petty or pointless, it’s something.” He says, handing Kate a now ready-to-use glue gun. “You don’t just walk away. That’s more than you can say for most people,”  
“And anyway,” Kate continues after a long moment, her cheeks having pinked slightly, “despite what it may look like, I actually do like Clint and Matt. We are, like, actually friends outside of the club. I mean, I’m definitely the leader, but we did start it together.”  
“And Natasha?”  
“Oh, Natasha’s my friend too. And Clint’s just in love with her. She sticks around because she likes him back, but I know she likes to watch him swoon. What about Bucky?”  
It’s Steve’s turn to blush. “We’re just friends,” he says, maybe a little too quickly, and Kate actually laughs loud enough to jeopardize the entire operation.  
“That’s not what I asked, dude.”

In the end, they securely hot-glue different hand patches to the back pocket of Hodge’s pants, his gym shorts, the breasts of his shirt, and a very special one of a hand flipping the bird that Matt had ordered online for this very occasion to Hodge’s backpack. Steve had written “too” and “handsy” in bold, black letters to the patches they glued to his shirt, so it would be clear to Hodge and everyone else who attended that party the reason for this distinct, albeit petty, public humiliation.

Later, as their lunch period is just wrapping up, Matt, Natasha, Steve, and Bucky wait with bated breath at Natasha’s locker (the designated post-operation meetup spot). It’s not long before Clint and Kate come rushing towards them, both downright giddy.  
“Well?” Matt asks simply.  
“It took him a long while to come out of the locker room, once he realized all his clothes were fucked up,” Clint says, a little breathless. “I think he’s coming this way now.”  
The hushed laughter and muted whispering in the hallway confirms it — the crowds of students in the hallway part for a red-faced Gilmore Hodge, as though they were the Red Sea and he were a very unfortunate Moses. Natasha throws him a knowing smirk as he passes, to which he only turns redder and lets his eyes drop to the floor.  
“As much as I truly enjoy this,” Bucky starts, watching Hodge slink down the hallway and out of sight, “can’t we do better than just public humiliation? I mean,” he turns to Natasha, “couldn’t you go to a teacher? He could probably get suspended for something like this,”  
Natasha’s lips purse. “A lot of the girls were too scared to come forward about it. And Hodge had friends at that party too; they would’ve just denied everything, so what can we do without proof?” She turns to open her locker as she speaks, throwing textbooks into her purse roughly and meeting no one’s eyes. “Believe me, we thought about going to a teacher first. It’s not as though I acted without consulting the other girls he —” she slams the locker door shut and takes a deep breath. “If public humiliation is the only we can get for now, we’ll take it.” With a tight smile, she’s gone, gracefully weaving through the crowds to get to her next class, and somehow even just the back of her head has this way of making Bucky feel guilty for asking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is edited weirdly but it's 12:20am and I'll figure it out tomorrow. Little shorter this chapter but hope you enjoy anyway. Cheers till next time. 
> 
> @catfasteve on tumblr, if you're into that sort of thing.


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